Guilt
by JamesLuver
Summary: Anna and John meet for the first time since Matthew's death. Prompted by anon on Tumblr.


**A/N:** Receiving this prompt intrigued me, because it gave me a tiny bit of time to explore my thoughts on the fact that perhaps Anna will blame herself for the accident, since she was the one who said that Matthew should drive himself in the car. I really do hope that she doesn't blame herself for Matthew's death (though it could be very interesting for Anna/Bates interactions. Also for Anna/Mary). It was his own silly fault. Well Dan Stevens', anyway. ;)

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine.

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_Guilt_

Anna stepped wearily through the door to the cottage, closing it softly behind her. It was almost two in the morning, and it had been the first opportunity that she'd had to get away. Lady Mary had been inconsolable in the hospital. Anna had felt compelled to stay by her side until the hysterics, such a disturbing thing on the usually so calm and calculated eldest Crawley daughter, had passed. She had told Mrs. Hughes, when she'd rang with an update, to tell John to make his way home without her, because she'd simply head straight to the cottage rather than return to Downton. Mrs. Hughes had agreed. Her voice had been wobbling, which had made tears want to fill Anna's own eyes. If even Mrs. Hughes, who had never been Lady Mary's great champion, could be so affected by the news, then how would everyone else cope?

It had been so hard watching Lady Mary fall apart, turning away from the comfort that her family had tried to give her. Everyone had seemed so helpless, not sure what to do or say. Anna suspected that, in the long run, Mr. Branson would be the one that Lady Mary turned to most, simply because _he understood_. And that thought sent chills down Anna's spine.

She left her coat in the hall and quietly made her way upstairs. She expected to find John fast asleep by now, perhaps snoring quietly on his back, so she was surprised to see the soft glow emanating from under their door. Slowly, she pushed it open.

John was sitting up in bed, a book clasped in his hands. He turned towards the door opening at once, dropping the book onto the covers. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. And then John was scrambling out of bed, crossing the room, pulling her fiercely into his arms. She sagged against him, breathing in the scent of him, burying her face in his chest.

It was that act – breathing his scent so deeply – that had the tears suddenly streaming, unbidden, down her face. She tried to swallow, but only sobbed. John pulled away from her.

"Oh, God," he muttered, bringing a gentle hand up to her face. "Don't cry, Anna. Please don't cry."

The action only made her cry harder. She pushed her head back against his chest, hiding her face from view. She was soaking the front of his pyjamas. The sounds she was making were ugly. Her fingers gripped his shoulders tightly.

Tentatively, John began to back up, leading her to the edge of the bed. Once there, he sank down on the covers. She collapsed beside him, keeping her head buried against him. He stroked his hands softly against her back, not sure what she needed.

"It's all right," he repeated over and over again. "It's all right. I promise."

Eventually, Anna had regained enough of her senses to push away from him weakly. Her eyes were wet and swollen. Her nose was red. She sniffed loudly.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was shaking.

He shook his head, taking hold of her hands. "Never be sorry for that, Anna. I just want to know that you're all right."

She nodded tentatively. "I think so."

"You must be exhausted," he murmured. "Come on, let's get you into bed."

She allowed him to undress her. There wasn't anything seductive about his movements, just touches filled with love and gentleness. He slipped her nightgown over his head when he'd done, and she shakily reached up to undo her bun, plaiting her hair with expert ease. Together, they swathed themselves in their bed sheets. John reached out and clutched Anna to him possessively.

"There," he murmured. "That's better."

She nodded against his chest, sniffing loudly.

"I know you're sad about Mr. Matthew," he told her gently. "It was a horrible tragedy, and –"

"It's not just that." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

John paused for a moment. And then he pushed her away a little, searching her eyes with a mixture of curiosity and worry. "What do you mean?"

There was no way she could get out of telling him the truth now. He would continue asking her until she answered, and she didn't believe in lies.

"This whole mess is my fault," she said quietly, averting her eyes from his. How could he even bear to look at her anymore?

"What? How is any of this your fault?" he asked her, utter confusion in his expression.

She could feel the tears burning again. "Because I was the one who said that it would be a good idea for Mr. Matthew to go ahead in the car. If I hadn't…he'd still be here. It's all my fault!"

A hysterical note had worked its way into her voice by the end, and he shushed her gently, pulling her closer.

"Now listen to me," he said firmly. "Don't _ever_ feel like any of this is your fault. Because it's _not_. What happened was a tragic accident. And I won't have you blaming yourself and making yourself ill over something that was not in your power. I heard Mr. Matthew was driving too fast. And do you blame him?"

She shook her head.

"There you go then," he said gently. "No one could have seen this coming, and no one could have stopped it. It just _happened_."

She nodded weakly, allowing him to pull her closer. He pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"Go to sleep," he told her softly. "You'll be exhausted in the morning. I'll be right here for you when you wake, I promise."

"I love you," she murmured. "I love you so much."

He squeezed her tight. "I know. And I love you."

Presently, Anna's exhaustion won out. John continued to hold her tight, vowing that he wouldn't let her tear herself apart with guilt.


End file.
